Sunday, June 29, 2014

idle wild

cliche scenario #35839: at a mountain town cafe the ruffians approach the writer who is typing on his laptop:

Two toughs approach the writer as he is typing away on his laptop. What is he writing about? How about the very scenario you are reading. Let’s keep it simple, OK?

OK. The two toughs stroll up the wooden stairs of the cafe. One of them puts out his camel filterless into the ashtray, but leaves it burning, to the chagrin of the lady who reads a paperback but she says nothing. She knows better. With all of the patrons already there, eye contact is quickly averted as these two strut their way up; they might as well be wielding battle axes and broad-swords with belts of beheaded victims dangling from them. That is the way these two cats present themselves, and that’s the way they like it.

Anyway, the writer types with a focused fury: damn, this place has good espresso. Real good. The typing is feverous and with a focused passion. A Sinatra tune, Accidents Will Happen, plays over the loudspeaker but the writer doesn’t pay any attention to that. So focused is he on the words he is typing that he fails to take note the two barbarians who hover above his table, glaring down upon him with a wolfen intensity.

Alas, one of them speaks: “Fancy computer.”

Is someone talking? Is that someone talking to the writer? No – they must be speaking to someone else. Everybody probably knows everybody in this town.

The other ruffian calls forth an ample amount of phlegm from his godforsaken bowels into his mouth and issues it forth – causing a SPLAT! on the wooden decking no more than 8 inches away from the writer’s left shoe – a checkered Vans slip-on.

The writer glances down at the small loogy puddle, nods his head, and looks up at the two and nods his head. He is very impressed.

“Very nice,” he says.

“You like that, huh?” The viking with the dust-ridden eagle bandana on his head asks, but not because he is actually curious.

“You betcha.” The writer looks back down at the pool then back up. “First-class.”

“We like your fancy computer,” the one with the cracked leather vest and Oakley sunglasses says.

“Thanks. I like it, too.”

“We really like it.” Bandana leans in.

The writer closes the laptop. Takes a look at each one of the toughs –– making certain eye-contact is achieved. He clears his throat. “I paid exactly $1375.65 for this machine, just in case you were wondering. May I ask you two fellas a question?” He doesn’t wait for either one of them to answer him, because the question was more a rhetorical one. “If you wanted to gauge the cost of your well-being, let’s say the use of your nose, thumbs, eyes, knees, and balls - would you say it is worth $1375.65?”

Huh? was the look the two made.

The writer continues: “Because I think you two are underselling yourselves considerably.”

The two berserkers registered an “I think he is fucking with us” look. One might call it "bemused bewilderment", another might call it "dumbfounded" and someone of more simplistic taste might say "insulted." Call it what you will.

“Well - we want it.”

The writer nods, pulls his three fake front teeth out, puts them in the case and smiles big.
“This is gonna be fun, boys.” He stands up. This place really does have good espresso.